Sons of Thunder, Daughters of Ether
by The Grey Lady1
Summary: Chapter 8 up! Smith ain't dead, and the Neb needs a way to stop him... But is the cure worse than the disease?
1. Run Through the Jungle

Disclamer: Yeah, yeah. I don't own the Matrix. Don't sue my poor broke ass off, please. 

Author's Note: Matrix fic, with me own sweet li'l OC, whom I am told is _not_ a Mary Sue. Smith's alive, the _how_ part is indeed coming up, not to worry. Everything else remains pretty much intact. Ah, what else? Just an idea I had with my Son-of-Ether-to-be and the Matrix. Different ship and crew are featured, by the by. Be merciful, as other than the digital world, it exists only in the scrawlings of my battered Chemistry notebook.

Oh, a few things you might wanna know about Marie: she fixes motorcycles and writes for academic journals for a meager living, and she's got the spirit of T. E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia, to the layperson) in her head. If you read past that, (and please do, I'll try an' make it worth your while) enjoy, and kindly review, please.  
  
Thanks must be offered to Jules, my right-hand fox, Inity, for backing me up, and the Divine Miss PL, without whom this would have died a long time ago. Also to Tanathir, who roused my seldom-seen competitive side.

I know it's silly for a fan-fic to have a dedication, but if this ever actually gets finished... For my father. I love you, Daddy, and I miss you.

Also: I'm thinking of compiling this sucker into one mega-chapter when I'm done with it. What says ya'll?   
  
  
  
  
Sons of Thunder, Daughters of Ether  
  
Trinity sighed, rubbing gingerly at her eyes. The Nebuchanezzar hummed and whirred around her, almost subliminally, the kind of constant white noise that was beginning to creep into her dreams... She'd been watching this damn code all shift, and it was starting to all look the same. The beaten leather chair creaked and groaned beneath her as she leaned back, cracking her vertebrae like a ratchet.  
  
There wasn't much happening in the Matrix construct of Independence, Missouri. But something nagged at her about this late-high-school-to-early-college girl, as she watched. Morpheus had noticed her first, claiming that she might be able to see things. "Certainly not in the way Neo does, or even you or I do. But I believe she might be onto something." She'd been wary, Tank had eagerly accepted the idea of a possible new crewmate, while Neo had merely nodded.  
  
He'd been right, of course. Always was.  
  
And now... Oh. Oh, SHIT!  
  
"Guys! Get your damn asses up here! The girl's got company!" She hollered over her shoulder. There was silence, momentarily, then the scuffle and clang of commotion, and they were huddled around her, yawning and bleary-eyed.  
  
"What? What is it?" Neo's voice, still sleep-slurred.  
  
Trinity spoke one chill word, a word that snapped them to wakefulness and sobriety.  
  
"Smith..."

Marie Lawrence, Eyes-of-Lawrence to her friends and associates, cursed. Loudly.

~_Not very lady-like, Marie,~_ Ned chuckled in the hollows of her mind. T. E. Lawrence. The calm voice of sanity and reason she'd lived with every moment since she was... what? Six? Seven? Yes, that was it, seven... How it happened, she wasn't sure, it was an accepted fact of life... Plus, this wasn't a very good time for contemplation.

"Blow it out your ass, Ned," she hissed, under the Boanerges' roar. The mighty SS 100 Brough Superior (~_Although it's more like SS 320, with what I've done to it,~_ thought the girl,) was hauling major ass through the grungy back-alleys of Independence. She didn't understand it. She'd been weaving and threading through this veritable labyrinth, at mind-shattering, suicidal speeds, and _still_ the goddamn Feds in their goddamn black Lincoln were about to chomp on her goddamn tailpipe with their goddamn grille.

~_So you're thinking that sneaking into the "office building" might have been a **bad** idea?~_

"Shut up, old man," Marie grumbled, flinching as a bullet zinged by her riding goggles. She gritted her teeth. They were gaining... "Blaze of glory, I suppose..." Hell, there were worse ways to go. 

She gunned the engine viciously, and it roared like a wounded tiger as she reared upward with a savage jerk, the buildings around her a complete blur. For a single weightless moment, the human and machine were one, time warping into Zen-like stillness as her black woolen coattails snapped and fluttered in the wind. 

Time returned to it's normal state as the tires whumped onto the battered pavement, sending a shock all through the bike, Marie's jaw snapping shut with a painful click. Loose gravel, rocks, and shards of glass sped through the air as the tires squealed for purchase, banking and swerving impossibly, the tires spinning with an undulating, sandpapery hiss. It sounded like the death-rattle of a viper, and for one marrow-freezing moment, Eyes thought she'd lost the bike completely, that what gray matter she had was going to be strewn across the slick pavement, body broken by the impact, and shattered further by the following bullets. 

At the last possible millisecond, steel reacted to sinew while her storm-blue eyes were counting individual cracks in the oncoming asphalt. The Boanerges jerked upright, and stormed down the alleyway like the child of thunder that it was named for. 

In fact, it wasn't until two blocks later that her mind processed the Lincoln's own tell-tale signs of a less fortunate spin-out. Ned murmured some smart-assed comment or another about how it took her long enough as she crowed her triumph to the stars, slipping safely into the sheltering arms of the city night.

Agent Smith slammed the mangled car door shut with a growl. "You're _sure_ she's still plugged in?" The streetlights glinted malevolently off of his sunglasses, the cold neon and smooth chrome shining in chill mechanic perfection as their owner glared down the slick, narrow alleyway.

"Yes," Agent Jones said, surveying the wreck of the Lincoln. "It would be a simple matter to dispose of her. We're already running a search for her location."

Smith 'breathed' in. (Breathe. Was there such a thing as breath?) Wet asphalt, motorcycle and car exhaust, garbage, the ever-present human reek.....

--And something Else.

Just a whisper, a gossamer thread of scent, as soon gone as touched, but there. Undeniably there. It was... fresh. It didn't saturate him, almost seemed to brush away the stench of humanity that clung to him constantly, binding his senses in overwhelming disgust. It was... ozone and incense, motor oil and old books. Musty and vibrant all at once. Intoxicating.

"Sir? Are we to terminate the girl?"

"No..." It was faint, as he returned from that particular tract of data. Firmer, then. "No. This one interests me." Why? He assessed it with electrical speed. "She could be bait for the resistance."

Jones nodded as Smith stalked off. He shook his head behind his superior's back. Smith was getting more and more erratic by the day...


	2. Blinded By the Light

"How'd she _do_ that?" Tank breathed. "With the bike, I mean. …She's still plugged in, right? So how'd…?" He looked at Morpheus, bewildered.

The captain paused, bittersweet-chocolate eyes glazed over ever-so-slightly, gathering his thoughts. He spoke carefully, choosing his words. "It's rare, but not unheard of… The girl could be a Catalyst." All three leaned forward, Neo's brow furrowed, Tank eager for the information, Trinity's arms folded, face blank, unreadable. "Now, this isn't my area of expertise, but from what I know, they can be powerful, once released from the Matrix, but… Volatile." He shook his head suddenly. "I won't make assumptions, or try to tell you more now. It's too dangerous, trying to think on possibly flawed information. Tank," he said, focusing his attention on the operator, "I believe it's your shift. At a suitable hour, we'll try to contact Typhus. She knows more on the subject than I do."

Tank nodded, grinning despite the long watch ahead of him. "Captain of the _Ma'at_, right? I think Thread's still on her crew…"

Morpheus smiled his small smile. "We'll find out. Goodnight, boys and girl." With that, he slipped into the_ Nebuchanezzars _innards, heading for his bunk.

Neo asked, to no one in particular, "The _Ma'at_?"

Trinity's lips twitched as Neo met her eyes, in what may have been a smile. "I'll tell you in the morning. Get some sleep, Neo." She held his gaze perhaps a moment longer than absolutely necessary, then returned to her own small bunker, footsteps echoing on the ships grating. Neo followed, like a stray puppy.

"Night, ya'll," murmured Tank, cracking his knuckles, the sound lost in the subliminal white noise, settling in for a long shift…

***

The light spilled onto the street, tarnished bronze washing over the bricks and smooth Deco molding, and a tastefully hand-lettered sign that read:

"Sons of Thunder, Motorcycle Repair & Academic Consultation."

Home. She banked, smooth as ice, into the adjacent alley, bringing the engine down to the distant grumble of thunder as the victorious hero and her mighty steed pulled next to the garage door. The kickstand flicked out as quick as reflex, gleaming silver in the darkness, as she killed the engine completely.

"Well, Ned, I dunno. Their Lincoln sounded like it was pretty much shot all to hell. I mean, how could they follow me with no car?" She knelt next to the door as she spoke, sliding the riding goggles up to her forehead. "In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were deliberately trying to scare me." The soft click as the lock opened, a near subconscious routine.

~_I am not trying to scare you, Marie. I'm just saying--_~ He paused while she threw the door upward and open with its grating, cascading roar.

"I _hate_ that sound..." she murmured.

~_So do I. And what I'm saying is that you should be more careful_.~

"This from the 'Uncrowned king of Arabia?'" she smirked. "And if I recall correctly, sneaking into the 'office building' was _your_ brilliant idea, not mine." Eyes-of-Lawrence guided the Brough into the darkened garage, chuckling at his mock-bluster.

~_Why, I never! Insolent child..._~

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." She grinned, leaving the motorcycle softly ticking from the engine's heat as she sidestepped various disembodied car parts, relishing the gasoline and car-oil smell of home. She slipped off the riding goggles, hanging them on a hook as she freed her messy light-auburn hair. Her fingertips grazed the battered rope that pulled the garage door down, texture rough and bristly, blister-inducing...

~_Marie._~ Ned's voice was urgent, but calm, laced with steel. She froze in her tracks, feeling her insides turn to lead, the fire of adrenaline starting to lick at her veins. 

~_Someone's_ _coming_.~

"How much time?" Was she scared? Hell, yes. When T. E. Lawrence had that tone in his voice, you were a fool not to be. But he wasn't the only one with steel. 

~_Very little. There's not a lot you can do. Just know where your gun is_.~

"Oh, always."

~_Be careful, child. You'll be fine._~

God, she hoped so. She stood her ground, cracking her knuckles, sharply aware of the .22 at her hip. She folded her arms, tense, as he stepped into view.

All the fear drained out of her, as surely as if a faucet had been turned off. Maybe it had just been drowned out by the adrenaline, because the man before her didn't precisely induce hope.

Her mind pounded, racing like jet engines had been strapped to it. Tall, not too bad but not too classy suit, verrrry slightly receding hairline, severe rectangular sunglasses, face carved from caucasian-colored stone, and the tell-tale earpiece coiling down his neck. Shit. Fed if she'd ever seen a crappy action movie. 

"Miss Lawrence?" His voice was resonant, smooth, but tinged with a faint sense of the inherently Not-Fuckin'-Right that she couldn't (and maybe didn't want to) put a finger on. It was maddening, that vague sense, but intriguing at the same time. Like a theorem that made you work up, down, sideways, backwards, and into the Fourth Dimension before you cracked it with something inspired by 'Army of Darkness.'

"Yes?" She kept the suspicion and mild curiosity in her voice, as it was natural. "Can I help you, Mr...?"

His eyebrows lowered a fraction, the irritated but tolerant superior. "Smith. _Agent_ Smith." Arrogant. She _loathed_ arrogance...

~_Oooh, we could play with the bloke!_~ Eyes grinned inwardly. Yes, they could.

"Miss Lawrence, I would like to have a word with you on behalf of my colleagues abou---"

"Well, Mr. Smith-Agent-Smith, if you're here on business, the alley's no place to discuss it." She turned on her heel, flicking on a bright florescent light. Cold green-tinged light flooded the tangle of mechanics that flooded the workbench and spilled over onto wooden shelves, creeped under tarps, and found their way into clients' motorcycles and the beaten body of the '54 that dominated the space. "Close the garage door behind you, please..." She picked her way across the cluttered space with practiced ease, hand resting on the handrail of a rickety spiraling iron staircase. "As you don't look like the type that needs help with a class, or work on a motorcycle, well... Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly." She mock-bowed, indicating the stairway, and totally missing the slight twitch of his lips that was the barest hint of a smile. This was going to be altogether too easy...

"I believe I will, Miss Lawrence..."

* * *

Tank gulped, staring at the screen in abject horror. Wrong. The softly descending green lines had to be wrong...

Nope. 

A singular pearl of wisdom crossed his lips, the combination of two words, never before so true and meaningful.

"Ohshit."


	3. Sympathy for the Devil? Almost.

Eyes threw the door open, wishing she felt one-quarter as careless as she was acting. The incandescent lights in the Art-Deco-ish sconces flickered with their familiar, near inaudible crackle, draping the room in warm, musty light. She sauntered past the battered, overstuffed couch that curved around a glass-and-steel table. A bonsai rose out of the smooth glass, elegant, serene, a small and treasured testament to Order in the midst of all this chaos. "Make y'self at home," she called from the adjacent kitchen. In fact, all the place seemed to consist of was the living room, the kitchen, and a loft above it overflowing with books.

"Ya want somethin' t'drink? Wine, coffee, soda, water..."

"No." Short. Very short. She hoped that wasn't irritation in his voice...

Aww, shit, shit, shit, and furthermore, shit. What the living hell was she _doing?_ This guy wasn't one to fuck around with. And what was she doing? That's right. Fucking around. The damn Fed was going to bust a cap in her ass any second now--

~_Calm, Marie. He can't very well shoot you for hospitality, now, can he?_~

"Suit y'self," she answered the Fed, stooping to the contents of the refrigerator. 

"Hey, Ned," she hissed, well under her breath, "Scotch or Perrier?"

~_Better go with the Perrier. Government agents tend to frown on underage drinking._~

"Right."

The fizz of the carbonation, the crack of the ice... Wonderful. Still, as she cradled the spun-glass goblet, (a payment from a grad school customer gifted in glasswork but not theoretical physics,) she couldn't help but wonder if this near-perfect drink would be her last...

There was no way that Morpheus could sleep. He paced the Spartan bunker, restless as a caged panther. His footsteps rang out like a judge's gavel, listing his crimes. The crew deserved an explanation, a reason for having watched the girl for this long. For the peril-fraught, brief excursions into the Matrix over her... He paused, tapping the casing of his console, the one luxury he allowed himself. Where was Typhus? The fact that he'd not been able to contact her for this long, well, it worried him. Add that to his failure to know precisely what it was they were looking for in Eyes-of-Lawrence... Sloppy. And sloppiness was fatal in this harsh world. 

He needed to find Typhus, to find out what she knew, and what he needed to know. Despairing, he punched up the Ma'at's code in his console, hoping against reason.

*************************

Searching for target ZSF:MNR: (PSA: 101.5 [94.18] {91:4.8.14-15}... 

Acquired.

Sending request... Accepted.

Connecting... Initializing transmission.

*************************

Morpheus smiled at the pixie-like face that fizzled into existence on the console's screen, framed as it was by short, spiked silver-white hair. "Yo, Morph, what up? How's that Neo kid doin'? Ya'll alright after, well... ya know..." She looked rather sheepish on the last line, as much as she could get through the slight static.

"We're fine, Thread. But why has your line been closed all this time?"

"Oh, _that_. Well, Shakes has been working on the bitch for-EVER. I mean, ever. Finally got the communications up again. You shoulda seen Ty. Lady don' like flyin' mute."

"Understandable...I trust Shakespeare's well?"

"Oh, yeah. Shakes is great. We're all hangin' in here. But I trust this ain't purely a social call?"

"Perceptive, Thread. Is Typhus awake?"

"I don' think she even sleeps. 'Old on, I'll get her."

Thread darted off the screen, leaving the faintly Art-Noveau interior of the Ma'at. A few moments, some faint scuffling in the background, and Typhus slid on the screen, slipping on the headset. She was a woman of distinct Arabic descent, with a squared jaw, chiseled features, an elegant, slightly hooked nose, and glorious thick black hair that fell in locks around her face. A black tattoo swooped down from the corner of one eye nearly to her full lips. She smiled like a sphinx. "Morpheus." Her voice was spiced coffee, smoky and sweet. "Good to talk to you again. To what do I owe this singular honor?"

"Hello, Typhus." He felt the smile creeping across his face. "As much as I wish this was a social call, I need information. I've been trying to call you for quite some time now..."

She sighed, glancing offscreen a moment. "Alright. What do you need, old friend?"

"I need to know about Catalysts... I may have found one."

"Jesus, Morph, first the One, now a Catalyst... What's next, the last Siamese twins?" She sighed. "I suppose you'll want to wake this one up, then. Just you, Tank, Trinity, and this Neo kid, and you're gonna unplug another one..." Quietly, now. "You should have recruited when you were in Zion for... their funerary rites. Crap. I _am_ sorry, Morpheus. Truly. But how you're running that bucket of bolts with that small of a crew..."

"It was not yet time."

"I understand.... Does this supposed Catalyst have a name?"

"Eyes-of-Lawrence. She's an intelligent thing, and seems capable enough."

She waved it away. "Immaterial. What you need to know is... well, it's a lot. I've not been able to tell you much, and I apologize for that. Shakespeare's been working like a demon on the communications... No matter. Catalysts. You're going to have to be careful with this one, as they don't take to the process of rebuilding well. Outwardly, and sometimes physically, it's not so bad, but they tend to have more severe psychological trauma from the experience than most.... What else? Hm."

Morpheus sat, patient, listening intently as she continued. "I'll send some more specific files on that..." Keys clacking faintly in the static-fringed background. "Sending..."

A few moments, as the connection labored. "I've got them."

"Wondrous. Now, you know that these Catalysts have certain.... power, in the Matrix."

"Yes..."

Her voice was distant, faraway, like recalling ancient text, eyes turned inward and glazed. "The nature of this power is not well-known, due to the sheer rarity of it's occurrence, but several things have been consistent in all documented cases." She blinked, coming closer to the surface for a moment. "Those should be in your files, too..." She slipped back into her trance-like state. "Whereas the phenomenal power of the First was based on the ability to strip away the illusion of the Matrix, the lesser power of Catalysts seems to derive from the ability to strengthen the Matrix. Due to this, Catalysts seem to have extremely turbulent mental states, and the transition from the Matrix to the Real World tends to be more traumatic than for others. Also, as a result of their close attunement to the Matrix, they can best fathom the minds of Agents and other forms of AI. Unfortunately, this causes a disturbingly high percentage of defections to the other side. A Catalyst turned to AI is one of the single most fearsome weapons in the Machines' arsenal." She blinked, slowly, coming back to herself. "There was some side note, too, about how they can either light up their radar or slip beneath it, as the situation requires. But God, I hope you know what you're doing..."

"So do I, Typhus. So do I..." He reached to terminate the conversation.

"Hey, wait. I'll be damned if I'm not getting in on this. I mean, you _really_ don't want this one going over to Them. You're going to need my help, understaffed as you are. So come on, send me your coordinates." She looked like a child pleading with a strict parent, plaintive. It was hard to tell through all the damn static, though.

He managed a chuckle. "Alright. I'm sending them now. Tank's going to _love_ this..."

"Wondrous." She grinned, brilliant ivory against cinnamon and mocha.

The resonating clang of boots on the Nebuchanezzar's deck. Tank burst into Morpheus' room, panting. "Eyes... Smith... n'her 'partment..."

"Smith?" He turned to the console. "Get here when you can, Typhus. Morpheus out." He flicked it off, and raced to the Core, at Tank's heels.

"You _can_ sit, ya know. The couch may squeak, but it usually don' bite." This was Eyes' carefully nonchalant, faintly smart-assed remark to the stoic Agent Smith, standing rigid as a pillar in her living room. She flopped down onto the beaten couch sipping at her Perrier and carefully ignoring how utterly fluid, yet mechanical, the man's movements were as he slipped into place opposite her, across the smooth glass table.

"Miss Lawrence, this is most assuredly _not_ a social call." She could almost feel the slight growl in the back of his voice, maybe in the way that his R's tended to be ever so slightly elongated. 

Yep, she was gonna die. One way or another. She set the goblet down on the table with a slight chink!, leaning back. "Well, I figured that much. What is it I c'n do ya for, Agent Smith?" She allowed herself the slightest hint of a mocking emphasis on his title, little more than a breath, really, fighting down the smirk that was tugging at the muscles of her lips. Hell, if she was gonna go out, she was gonna have fun with it. Right? Of course. Yeah. Right. That was it... Sure thing, Marie. Uh-huh. 

"I need information regarding a woman that may have contacted you recently. Perhaps a customer, with a Triumph Speed Triple...?"

He was waiting for her to give something away, that much was obvious. She didn't bat an eyelash, merely waited for him to continue. The Speed Triple was underneath the tarp, downstairs. And she'd had to pry .45 rounds out of it... She thought either Magnum or Desert Eagle, but wasn't sure. And the lady who'd brought in the damn thing... Whew! Kick-ass, in black leather that was like some sort of second skin. Payment would come later, in the form of a choice... some mysticism junk like that. Still, it was fun, and she met simply the most interesting people that way... And retained her expression, quirking a brow for him to go on.

"This woman goes by the alias of Trinity. Now, whatever it is--" 

Shit! Yeah, that had been the one... Okay, let's try this... "Look, man, I'd love to help you. Honestly. I would. But all information regarding my clients is strictly and purely confidential. I'm sorry, but--" She started to stand, holding her hands up in a gesture of 'nope, no can do.'

"Sit _down_, Miss Lawrence." He fixed her with a gaze that could have either melted steel or frozen the sun, depending on how you wanted to look at it, even behind the smooth dark shades. Somehow, that made it even worse, not being able to see where he was looking, but just the barest outline of his eyes. She sat. Quickly. "This woman is known to belong to an extremely dangerous and highly fanatical terrorist group, one considered by many to be among the most dangerous individuals alive."

"Woah. Hold on. This has to do with me... Why? It's in my contract, the confidentiality clause. Aside from professional pride and my reputation to consider, that's my word of honor. Besides, I don't know anything. If I did, I couldn't tell you." She paused. Man, was she ever going to die... "Look, I'm sorry. Really."

"Miss Lawrence, you obviously fail to understand the severity of the issue. This is more than your trifling 'professional honor' at stake. This is an issue of international security. By refusing to comply, you could be charged with high treason against this country."

Silence. He _had_ to be bluffing... Right?

~_You'll be fine, Marie. You're doing fine._~ Ned's reassuring murmur in her ear. She hoped he was right... Some other, more removed part of her brain noted Smith's peculiar inflections in his voice. Almost a lilt, not quite an accent.. It was fascinating, the kind of fascinating that could drive you mad from perusal. He continued.

"Aside from treason, there is the fact that you regularly display signs of... pathological behavior. By any accounts, a young woman that speaks to persons not present as if they were standing in front of her ought to be institutionalized. There are numerous incidents on file where you appear to be conversing with a man named 'Ned...' These are signs of dangerous schizophrenia, Miss Lawrence."

She felt her blood marrow chill to the shattering point. ~_Oh, shit..._~ Well, _that_ little comment certainly boosted her confidence... her voice was a chill whisper. "What the _hell_ are you implying?"

"Perhaps it would be best if you spent two years rehabilitating in a state-mandated mental facility..." He slipped off his sunglasses, carefully dislodging the earpeice along with them. His voice was just a bit less hard, like the difference between marble and sandstone.... And for a moment she was stunned by his eyes. They were a most unnatural, electric ice blue, vivid and intense. Like she could see the fabric of the world around her in them, if she looked deep enough. "However..." And this was a long, long pause, as if he was considering something from every possible angle. Finally, "I do not think I should like to see you in such a place..."

She looked at him a moment, head tilted to the side, brow furrowed slightly. He'd been threatening her all night, was very likely shooting at her earlier this evening, and he didn't want to see her in a mental institution? And yet, it made some sort of sense... "Look, Agent Smith, I'm thinkin' maybe there's--"

Gunshots. Very loud, very close. Alleyway. Shit... His head whipped around, sunglasses and earpeice in place, a growl rising from his throat. He was up, striding to the wall...

And punched straight through it.

"Holy shit..." 

~_Holy shit..._~ It was simultaneous. Eyes stared in horror, mouth hanging open, until realization dawned. "Hey! Hey, you fuck, that's my _wall_!" It was too late. The ass-kicking party had begun.


	4. The Ass-Kicking Party

  
Smith took precisely .034 seconds to calculate the angle of the trajectory needed for a successful landing from the gaping hole in the side of the building to the alleyway below. The delay was in part due to his mind processing problems elsewhere. Namely, the female human, Marie Lawrence, alias "Eyes-of-Lawrence."  
  
And that smell…  
  
In her apartment, it had been nearly overpowering, approaching heady. Frankly, he was amazed that he had been able to keep up any semblance of interrogation at all. Normally, any human with such a degree of insolence would not have been tolerated, if not for that distracting smell. He'd have to file it away to analyze more fully later. Such a thing induced a sort of serene fascination, almost what the humans would use as a drug. It was conductive of obsession, of intrigue, of…  
  
Weakness. It was conductive of weakness. Which sent his programming into an incapacitating tizzy. He hated it. Loathed it. It made him hollow, sapped his virtual might. But, strangely enough, this particular brand of weakness was… not unpleasant. Nor was the odd set of stimuli that seemed to induce it. Namely, her smell. Dusky and vital, scintillating… It had much the same effect as the scent of a cave, impossibly ancient, yet potent, teeming with an unseen life (or potential thereof). Hers was warmer, though, spicy and sleek.  
  
The complexity and elegance of it was matched only by the structure of her eyes. Threads of gossamer tissue, crystallized in hues of indigo, cerulean, silver, and dove gray. The light had refracted in flickering, shifting tones, in a dance of perfect Order. The Matrix would do that, sometimes, paying particular attention to some irrelevant detail, enhancing the sheen of light on leaves, the texture of velvet, or the detail of wood grain.  
  
His musings ended as his shoes hit the slick, shining asphalt of the alley below. Two figures were backed by the copper streetlight, one in black leather, bronze sheen on the top of his head and the cool gleam of his sunglasses in the darkness. Morpheus. The other, slimmer, wrapped in fluttering silks like liquid smoke. Typhus... Fatima al Zimbel. Either of her names was enough to tremble the very code of any sentient program. She was the originator of some of the most fearsome viruses ever to be unleashed on the Matrix: The Djinn, the Jorgumandur, the Broken Lock, of course the Typhoid Mary, and the terrifying Radon's Morrigan, released after Smith himself had killed one of her favored students. She was one of the largest dangers to the structure of the Matrix....  
  
A low, groaning creak on the fire escape above... Neo, or Anderson, perched on the railing, knees drawn up to his chest. Well, well.  


A murmur, al Zimbel to Morpheus. "What the hell is with that boy and his Christopher Walken fixation? It's not normal." Morpheus merely shook his head, slowly.  


"Morpheus, Ms. al Zimbel, and Mr. Anderson... Your timing is inconvenient, to say the least."  
  
  
"I _told_ you the name. And the lady's name is Typhus. But I'm sure you knew that..."  
  
He didn't even bother to look up. "You got up once, Anderson. Do not, as the phrase goes, 'push your luck.'"  
  
Neo shook his head, smiling like a cat, and leaped down. Too quickly for human eye to follow, yet almost in slow he used the momentum to deliver a roundhouse kick- yes, kick- to Smith's jaw. Neo's coat flared out behind him, torso twisting in some kind of silent ballet. Smith's head whipped backward with the blow, then back toward the front, growling. The exchanged blows and blocks were rapid-fire, with inhuman grace and speed, a danse macabre.  
  
Morpheus and Typhus watched, arms folded, seeming to play no attention to the tall, slim figure trotting up behind them, tiny braids clacking with every step. "Typhus, mon, da bikes are ready."  
  
"Thank you, Ariel... And what do you think, Morpheus? Neo in, say, ten?"  
  
"Five. He wouldn't play him like you would."  
  
"You're on."  
  
  
  
"Oh, man. Ohhhh, maaaaan... Heap of shit, Eyes-m'-lass. Heap of shit." Her hair was already pulled back and away from her eyes, albeit messily. Her .22 was loaded and ready, and the less-familiar .380 was in a shoulder holster. Letsee. She had one or two suitable, slim daggers for her boots, somewhere around here... God. Had she -ever- accepted money for a job instead of odd gifts? Nah, probably not.  
  
~_Calm yourself, woman. You have guns, knives, and before you ask,_ "Seven Pillars" _is already in the Boanerges' saddlebags. Along with everything else you might conceivably need. Now, go.~_  
  
"Alright. Okay... Going. Yeah. Let's go. " A deep breath, slow and steady, heart doing about 120 in a 55 mph zone, and the officer wanted to make sure she knew _why_ she was being pulled over. She gave a last glance to the small apartment, feeling a wave of... what? Nostalgia? Premature homesickness? Love of home and hearth? Impossible to define... She shook it off and slipped out, the rackety staircase squeaking and rattling wildly.  
  
In the garage, the lights were already on. Shit. "Who's there?" Her hand was already sliding to the .22...  
  
"Trinity. Is the bike ready?"  
  
Oh, this inspired such incredible trust. Mmm-hmm. After being told by a guy that looked like a Secret Service reject from the Kennedy era that this Trinity chick was a dangerous fanatical terrorist, she was gonna just comply with anything the woman said... C'mon. Give her some credit. "Yeah, underneath the tarp. Shifting's still a little sticky, but other than that, she's fine. And do you have any idea how damned hard it is to dig .45 slugs out of a machine like that?"  
  
"I can imagine... Now, about your payment--" The fluorescent light glinted off of vinyl and sleek sunglasses. Who the hell wore sunglasses at night?  
  
"Oh, don't worry, money's not the thing... Just whatever you have."  
  
"I said it would be a choice, right?"  
  
"Err... Yeah..." Eyes-of-Lawrence glanced at the two with her, one a somewhat shorter woman with silvery spiked hair, a few tiny braids (or maybe dreadlocks, she couldn't tell) hanging down in dark eyes, slender fingers and chewed-up nails playing anxiously with a toothpick. The other was a massive black man, hair in small tufts that were... She blinked. Tied with little pink bows... She glanced back at Trinity. "Extremely powerful terrorist group, huh?"  
  
A slight smirk from the woman. "Oh, yeah. Look, kid, it's like this." The woman's hand reached into her coat pocket, hands folded in an imitation of prayer, eyes closing for a moment, before both hands formed fists. "Your payment is either to take your chances with the Agent out there," her left hand opened as she spoke, palm up, a blue gel pill gleaming in the center, like the forbidden treasure in some temple along the Ganges. "Or I show you exactly what's wrong with the world. You have three seconds." The right hand opened. A red pill glistened, as if some sort of potent, liquid fire had been captured and incased there. She paused...  
  
~_Whatever that Smith person had to say about this woman, Marie... I think you should go with her. But this is wholly your decision.~_  
  
"Alright, then..." she breathed, and took the red pill from the woman's hand, raised it to the three of them in mock-toast, and swallowed it dry.  
  
Trinity smiled, grimly. "Great. Now, come with us... Oh, and these are Caliban" the man waved a bit, smirking behind John-Lennon styled sunglasses, "and Thread." The woman tossed off a mock-salute. "It's gonna be you two, Morpheus, and Neo in the Contential, right?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Thread drawled, a Brooklyn accent tinting her words. "Ari's on her Harley, an' th' little double-a here c'n ride on 'er bike, right?"  
  
Eyes allowed herself a smirk. "Oh, you ain't seen nuthin' yet, lady..." She grabbed her riding goggles from the handlebars of the bike, tapping the old glass for luck as Trinity threw off the tarp from the Triumph, the blue plastic crinkling and rustling, too loud in the cavelike space.  
  
"Right, chief. Catch ya on th' flip side. Pennsylvania an' Main, right?" Trinty nodded inreply, and Thread and Caliban clomped off at a brisk clip. Trinity looked to Eyes. "As soon as this is up, you ride like the hounds of hell are on your tailpipe, understand?" Without waiting for a response, she threw up the garage door as Eyes gunned the Boanereges' engine, wincing at the god-awful sound.  
  
The headlights shot through the congealed darkness of the alleyway, catching a pale, black-clad man in the final stages of dispatching a not-happy Agent Smith. Like some kind of spotlight on speed... "Penn and Main, right, old man?" she murmured as she whipped the channeled thunder down the alley, raising a hand in salute at the pale man's nod. He looked like a warrior... Past a spotless black Lincoln, something straight out of the '70's, into which Caliban, Thread, another black man, -this one bald-, and a striking Arabic woman were climbing.  
  
And the streets and the roar and the blurred river of asphalt beneath her, and the buildings flowing past, dreamlike, and Ned's soft murmur, and she forgot herself for a while...


	5. Shine On

Trinity gunned the Triumph's engine, the purr reverberating in the slick tangle of streets, in tandem with the more full-throated roar of Eyes' ... What had she called it? Bow-an-air-jazz? Something like that. 

The figured they had time to get her to the Isis, the abandoned theatre at Penn and Main. She repressed the ripple of a shudder that ran down her spine. Place gave her the creeps, despite being a mere computer program. Now was not the time, though... Time. The red pill would take more time to work, with two ships tracking it. And she'd heard Typhus muttering something about 'remote activation...'

This was hardly the time to think about it. She saw Neo twist around in the Continental, returned his smile, and watched as he tossed a nod to Eyes... His eyebrows shot up suddenly, eyes wide behind the sunglasses, and he gestured wildly to a point behind them. Trinity's eyes flicked downwards to her rear-view mirror. 

"Shit!"

An Agent. An Agent on a rather fast bike....

Fast bike, her ass. It was the Souped-Up Mitsubishi From Hell.

Eyes-of-Lawrence must have seen him, too, yelping a harsh "Aw, bloody hell..." barely audible over the engine's roar. They had time, yes, but not much.

****

+Trinity. 

A digital readout, in the left corner of her sunglasses... Had to be Shakespeare. Hesitantly, then, not sure if he could 'hear' her. "Yeah...?"

****

+Can you and the kid lead him on for a bit?

"What? You want me and the live-wire here on a _chase_? With a fucking _Agent_?"

****

+She handled him well enough in her apartment. Besides, I'm having an absolute bitch of a time with this 'remote activation' crap. I just hope we don't lose the tyke.

"Don't even think like that. But... Fine." She regarded the softly glowing green text in her sunglasses for half of a second. "You've been reading too much fucking Neuromancer. Trinity out."

****

+I know. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Shakespeare out.

Trinity blew out a sigh. "Great..." She shouted to Eyes, with more calm than she felt, "Follow me!"

The girl must have heard, despite the engines and those strange clunky leather goggle straps over her ears, peeling away with Trinity as the Continental sped off into the night, led by Ariel on her Harley. 

Trinity wondered how such an old bike could move so nimbly. It was really like some sort of hotrod motorcycle... Anyone who could build something like that would be damned useful on a ship... No time, though. The chase was on, the ball in her court, for the moment...

She dived down a narrow alleyway, trusting Eyes to follow, and Smith's larger bike to be not quite as quick. "Bring it, you bastard," she growled through clenched teeth. The chase was on.

Smith's own irritated growl was on nearly the same note as the motorcycle between his legs, distantly thankful for the human host with a motorcycle. Reinforcements were already set to close in on the rest of the rebels, so Trinity and the Lawrence girl were left to him. A mere supposition, of course, so... Ah. The constant, buzzing dataflow in his ear confirmed it.

Perhaps he could talk some sort of sense into the Lawrence girl before the rebels had corrupted her mind completely, poisoned her ideals with the toxic doctrine of chaos. If he could, the girl might have a future, and the Matrix a potentially potent weapon. If not, then she'd have to be terminated, like the rest. 

He found himself curiously reluctant to perform that particular task, however. Most likely it was the lingering influence of her strangely pleasant smell... But, also, a thought flashed across the almost-perfectly ordered surface of his mind, as quickly as the neon glare on the metallic blur of the motorcycle's spokes.

The bonsai on her glass table.

It spoke of a strange yearning for Order, in the midst of the semi-mystic, semi-mechanical chaos of her residence. That craving for Order could be useful, could be set to the purpose of the greater good... He pushed the engine harder, leisurely closing the gap between himself and the fleeing women.

Trinity dropped back, the Triumph's matte black somewhat harder to locate than the Brough's shining chrome in the pulsing pattern of passing lights. Smith's Desert Eagle sprang from it's holster with perfect grace as she came into range. He waited another yard, perhaps a sixteenth of a second, and fired. 

The recoil forced a shiver through him. It was slight, but there. And combined with a exquisitely timed fist-sized rock laying in the exact angle of the motorcycle's oncoming tire... Although he compensated for the recoil almost before it hit, the placement of the rock slowed his progress for just a breath too long...

"Trinity!" Eyes-of-Lawrence yelped as Trinity cried out in shock and pain. Her motorcycle swerved wildly as the scorching lead ripped through her calf. Eyes started, both at the woman's cry and her own intense wish for Smith to just back the fuck off for a while.

"I'm hit!" Eyes saw the ivory flash of clenched teeth in the racing shadows.

"Well, no shit, Sherlock..." she muttered, then called, "Get out of here! You're no good like this! I'll lead him on!"

"No-!" Her voice was thin, nearly lost in the thrum of the two-going-on-three engines.

~_"GO!"_~ Ned shouted it with her, and her voice almost resonated with some distant air of command, like the wind stirring the desert sands. Trinity complied, a solider to the bone, trailing blood and motor oil as she peeled away.

Eyes smirked grimly, fumbling for her .22 as she careened down the narrow alleyway, hoping to buy herself, and Trinity, now that she thought of it, some time.

Six bullets. Six... She'd have to aimed damned carefully.

"Ned, take the helm, if y'can..." she gulped, sending a disjoined prayer up to Whoever was listening.

The bones of her fingers seemed almost melded with the steel of the bike's handlebars, and the tiny overlapping strips of electrical tape that wrapped around the .22's grip must have left grooves in her metacarpals. The tendons of her annoyingly small hands were stretched taut, to what felt like the breaking point. She was almost sure she could feel individual fibers beginning to fray and snap...

__

Come on, come on... She let him gain, the shrill whine of his engine overlaying the Boanerges' purring roar.

~_Now, Marie!_~ Ned shouted, and her spine snapped like a whip, .22 leveled, fingers frozen to stone claws, immutable. And-

Time slowed for the second time in that hallucinatory night, high on unknowable narcotics.

Somehow, their eyes met, through the thick, battered glass of her aviator goggles, and the pure, shining night of his sunglasses. She granted him one smirk, faintly sorrowful and highly ironic. His eyebrows raised in shock and, yes- fear, -over the sights of her pistol. Without conscious thought, she swung it downwards and fired. She could _see_ the blossom of escaping air that sprouted on his front tire, and-

The slight jolt from the .22 was enough to throw her off balance, forcing the bike into a swerve, veering like a drunken cow. The pattern of grime-coated bricks burned themselves into her retinas, and the bluntly serrated stench of burning rubber assaulted her lungs, the tires screeching out the siren song of madness as she slid sideways. She could feel the beaten denim of her jeans disintegrate between the rough asphalt and the carved-wood tautness of her calf, jaws clenched so tightly she was sure that her teeth had fused.

Behind her, the searing grate as Smith's front rim ripped into the concrete. Sparks sprayed up, the souls of Indian Paintbrush given brief, intense form. The screaming metal grinded to a stop. Then the back tire catapulted forward, flinging the hapless Agent into the air.

Fuckin' surreal.

He didn't fling his arms around and scream, like anyone with half a brainstem attached to their spine would do. Nope, not Mister Smith-Agent-Smith. The fucker actually attained some measure of displaced, cold grace in the air. A completely **wrong** grace, but grace nonetheless.

She watched in awe as he arched over the trail of smoldering rubber the Boanerges had left in its wake, drawing his arms to cradle his head. She caught the gleam of light on unnaturally white teeth, the chrome flash of the black, mirrored sunglasses.

She winced as he slammed into a Dumpster, the metal shuddering and rocking from the impact.

"Ouch."

~_Indeed. I wonder if he left a dent..._~

"I ain't stickin' around t'find out." She gunned the now-stilled engine, which rumbled ominously. "The tires should hold out till we get there, right?"

~_I should say so, yes._~

The Dumpster shifted. Eyes-of-Lawrence fled into the night.

A soft putter as the Brough Superior pulled alongside the curb outside the Isis. She grimaced at the pain that scampered up her road-burned leg as she plunked it onto the sidewalk, shifting her weight onto it.

"Man. That's gonna hurt like hell in the morning...."

~_Technically, it already_ is _morning. And buck up. You should be dead._~

"Well, thanks fer th' vote of confidence, chief." She smirked, joints groaning as she knelt to survey the damage. "Damn..." If _she_ was lucky to be alive, it was a goddamned miracle that the bike was even holding together... She noticed she wet sheen on the nearly-ruined front tire, and glanced downward, at the gutter... Gorgeous. The faint, orange light was playing on a tiny rivulet running through it, the water almost braided in its tiny ripple. She forced her eyes back to the bike, and frowned again. "That's going to take one _fuck_ of a long time to fix...."

~_Language, dear. Look up._~

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I should be thankful to be alive."

~_No... Look_ **_up._**~

She complied.

"Woah..."  
Rarely did one see stars in the city, and rarer still this clearly. The sky was absolutely bottomless, just this massive indigo-black well filled to the brim with cold stars. It was so deep, and so utterly vast, her own existence but a speck in this grand design, her short life of no consequence to this great spangled canvas of celestial velvet.

Her breath steamed as she spoke. "You know, Ned, sometimes I see all of this, and I think... Well, I think that, despite all the shitty parts of the world, there's such beauty here, that... That maybe whoever made it can't be all bad, y'know?"

~_Yes, my dear, I know. Now, you better get inside, as they're waiting... And Marie?_~

"Yeah?"

~_You... You take care of yourself. Promise me that. You're rather important to me, you know..._~

"I figured that." She grinned, trying not to wonder why he was acting like this... Strange old man. "And I will."

She steeled herself, and faced the Grand Old Lady.

A winged sun disk, in faux-guild, spread sheltering wings over the shattered marquee. A delicate grating hung over the yellowing plastic, _THE ISIS_ in stately letters. She crept forward to the doors, the brass handles, in the shape of lotuses, worn smooth with time. She allowed her fingers to play over the metal blossom a moment, then yanked.

Shit. It was stuck... Another pull, the muscles in her shoulder protesting, and it gave with a B-movie creeeeeeeeaaaaaakkk....

"Nice touch," she muttered, and slid into the awaiting shadows, without the slightest trepidation. Nope, no fear here. Not in the least little bit. Nuh-uh. Nope. Nada. Zip. Goose-egg.

The door slammed shut behind her, and she yelped, a pitiful girlie-scream.

"Hush, kid! We've gotta be careful!" Thick Brooklyn drawl, female, nearby.. shit...

She fumbled for a small steel Zippo that she _knew_ was in her coat, hands shaking as she flicked it once, twice, and, ahh... Let there be light.

Her eyes about bugged out of her head as she took it in. The lighter's flame danced on ruined box office windows, stone columns, and glittering Art-Deco opulence. She was reminded of Howard Carter's words upon the opening of Tutankhamen's tomb... "Wonderful things..." she breathed. It was like some holy place, an Egyptian-themed temple to cinema. Or, maybe, to old gods reborn... Still, there was power here, something whole and ancient and pure running deep beneath the flawed fabric of this world.

"Hey, ya gonna stand there all th' damn night, or are ya gonna come with me, fer chrissake!" She forced her eyes to the speaker. It was... String? Spindle? Needle?

"Yo, it's Thread. Remember, in yer garage? Jeesus, kid, wasamattawicheuw?"

"Bless you."

"Yeah, yeah. Smart-ass." She turned on her heel, gesturing with her chin for Eyes to follow. Which she did, wary, lighter high. The older-and-smaller lady swung a door open, one Eyes had missed, and darted through a dizzying array of rich corridors, Eyes glancing at brief flashes of faux hieroglyphics, mostly names and hidden jokes when translated, along with some painfully bad interpretations.

"Would you stop with th' damn daydreamin'? We're 'ere, already. Oh, an' kid? Good luck."

She blinked from her observant trance, and smiled, sheepish, as Thread rolled her eyes and stomped through a door that looked ready to fall off it's hinges, into what looked like some sort of lounge for the director or manager in it's day, or some other equally important person, full of faded luxury.

Along with Trinity, nursed by that strange, pale warrior Eyes had seen before, there was Caliban, behind a number of computers, thick fingers flying, pink bows bobbing softly to a pair of headphones perched on his temples. A taller, slimmer lady of African descent was focused intently on some fricking _strange_ machinery that looked hooked up to a dentist's chair... Or what could be a dentist's chair, if the furniture designers had a nasty crack habit.  
"Ah, Eyes-of-Lawrence... A pleasure to meet you."

She turned her attention to the resonant voice, and wondered why she hadn't noticed the two before, as their presence seemed to pervade the room. A tall black man, arms folded behind his back, clad entirely in flowing black leather, with the single most kick-ass pair of sunglasses Eyes had ever seen. A short, somehow willowy lady stood beside him, with dusky skin and a tattoo that curved from the corner of her eye down her cheekbone, elegant as a raptor's claw. Robes that seemed like tangible smoke hovered around her ankles, just barely above the base clay.

She'd seen these two before, somewhere... In grainy flashes, with the oil-grit texture of rubbed-off ink... News. These two were terrorists, and hackers of the highest order, pulling death-defying attacks on repressive social systems around the world. She gulped, and managed a nod of greeting.

"You've naught to fear here... Naught but truth." The lady, voice dark and rich.

"Allow me to introduce myself and my associate... I am Morpheus, and the lady here is Typhus. No doubt you've heard of us."

"Oh, yeah," she squeaked. "Yep. Just a bit."

"I'm afraid there's not much time... Even here, it's not entirely safe," Morpheus purred. "You've made your choice previously, now it's time for us to make good on that offer..."

"Fuckin' _miracle_ we got alla dis shit set up in time..." Thread muttered, gnawing furiously on a toothpick as she fiddled with the controls of...something. "'Ay, Neo, ya wanna gimme a hand, 'ere? Yer ass-kickin' girlfrien'll be fine for a few minutes."

Typhus smirked, very slightly, slipping a cell phone from some unidentifiable pocket. "Your ship or mine, Morpheus?"

"Yours would be preferable, as the med bay is somewhat more advanced. I trust you'd let us transfer over, once we found a safe haven of some sort?"

"Like you even had to ask..." 

"Over here... Eyes-of-Lawrence, is it?" The pale gentleman called to her from the chair. Morpheus nodded to her, and she crept over, as ordered. "Have a seat, kid. Cool name, by the way."

"Thanks... Didn't catch yours."  
"Neo," he said, flipping metal restraints over her wrists and feet. He looked up at her alarm, chuckling at some private joke. "Try to relax. ....This is the easy part."

"Oh, joy..."

"Shakespeare, she's ours. If the remote activation's set up, press a button or something... Wondrous. Set her free."

"Yo, mon, is de gel ready?" boomed someone that must have been Caliban. 

Her eyes widened, falling on an open book that seemed to be... dripping.. a la Dali's _Persistence of Time._ Dripping. A word slid off the page, to pool on the floor, illegible. "Holy shit... _That_ ain't right..."

Trinity's voice, from somewhere off to her left. "Catch you on the flip side, Eyes."

The world began to melt, dripping in a similar fashion to the book, things twisting into incomprehensible forms, sounds mutilated and warped. The room was peeling away, revealing...

Oh, sweet God.

There were these shining green strands weeping downward, the truest, brightest green she'd ever see, against stark black. Black like the void, like whatever it was that was beyond the universe. It was somehow like the stars outside, but so much _more_, as if that had been only some pale imitation of this... This that must underlay the whole word... This was the fabric of the world. All that existed, contained in that shining code. It was hieroglyphics reborn... Computer code. Glory, amen... Fucking computer code!

Ned's voice, then, before the darkness took her, distant and with more sorrow than she ever thought she'd hear there... ~_Goodbye, Marie..._~

The code (_hieroglyphs_) swirled around her, and enveloped her, and..

down....

down....

down....

Gone.


	6. And Now For Something Completely Differe...

The world was pink and gooey. 

Look down.

A body, -_can'tbemine!_- emaciated, tubes and wires sticking out in ugly-harsh black. Notright. Alien. The flesh had grown around them, to cradle, to keep in, to stick. Like a part of it. Extension. Other. –_notmine._-

Elegant rounded breasts, the left a fraction of a decimal fuller than the right, knobby wristbones, a freckle between the first and second knuckles of the left ring finger

-_mineogodmine!_-

Panic.

Wait...

__

-can'tbreathe!-

Something in the throat. A tube... Like the bendy part of a straw... All the way down.

Have to get it out... Not here. Forward. Up. Stretch... 

Push! Push! That's it...

Like giving birth to yourself... And out.

And out. Almost retching, throat contracting on the damn tube... 

Air! Glorious. In, out. In, out... Alive. Going to be alive...

The world. The world is pink-red and the blue-black of the shells of insects. Pods. People... Like she was, just a moment ago, looked up to tubes and pipes and... Oh, God... People. As far as she can see, in these pods. As far as she can see, she is the only thing alive...

Someone... Rod Sterling. Said that 'Terror is the finest emotion...'

He didn't see this...

Did her vocal cords work? "Ned..." A rasp. Not her voice, choked with the goop. "What the hell is this?"

Silence. In the depths of her mind, the still of the tomb.

"Ned?" Like a violin hitting an off-note.

A... scarab.. Scarab of death, swooped in on her, clacking and buzzing.

Metal clamp around her neck, drilling backwards from her skull. Red Cyclops staring down, recalling tiny shrill voices screaming "Heeelllppp meeeeeee!"

Small explosions in her flesh, hissing black snakes flung from her naked-frog body. The death-doctor-scarab scuttled onward, oblivious.

Back into the pink embryonic fluid.

And down, some twisted, slime-coated funhouse slide. Grated lights pulsed in unnatural rhythm. No way to tell how fast she was going, for how long, moving like filth through sewer pipes...

The bottom fell out.

She was enveloped in watered-down filth, like some icy and profane blanket. Slipping under... Once, twice, three times... _In Nomine Patris..._

The darkness was going to take her... 

Or not. 

Light. Light so bright it was almost solid, reaching for her, wrapping her in strong steel arms. Up.. Heaven? Was this heaven ahead of her? Into the light, then, alone, enclosed in light, nothing but light... Stabbing light in her eyes...

An angel? warrior? mother? goddess? bent over her, skin of cafe au lait and eyes of obsidian, hair of ebony and velvet, and honeyed breath.

"Welcome home, Eyes-of-Lawrence."

-_icantbeeyesoflawrencewithoutlawrence_-

Darkness.


	7. Beautiful Day (in the Neighborhood)

This was hell.

How had it come to this, anyway? How had she gone from her happy, eccentric little life, one of motorcycles and academics, of Ned's banter and her own limitless curiosity, to..... this?

Hell. She was in hell. 

This pathetic excuse for food, like boiled spooge, the constant subliminal hum of the _Ma'at_s engines, the walls.... 

God. The walls. They were lovely enough, but to live in them... The slightly curving surfaces had been welcoming at first, like the embrace of the womb, but after a while, the golden metallic glow had become... Entrapping? Clinging, maybe that was the right word. They didn't quite seem solid, with no hard straight lines to distinguish one object from another. She wanted to break out. It seemed like she had reverted, devolved, instead of being 'reborn.' 

And the silence.

Her mind was so quiet now. Deathly quiet. Nothing seemed to move in there, except her own bewildered, half-formed thoughts. Without Ned, there was nothing. Without Lawrence sharing space in her mind, how could she be Eyes-of-Lawrence? 

She sighed, flopping back on her dusty cot. The bunker would have been a cell, if it weren't for the wall etchings. In the Noveau-Egyptian movement that the _Ma'at_ had been created in, she thanked whatever God there was that they had included this. It was upraised lines, like some streamlined Braille, of a winged Isis protecting Osiris. Beautiful, really, infused with some sweet forgotten promise that called in the murky depths of her subconscious.

Long, delicate fingers laced behind her head, the stubble having gone from prickly to fuzzy. It was still odd, and more painful than she would have thought, not to have her long hair anymore. Still, this was at least manageable, and it was alright, really. The odd sort of peach-fuzz covering had seemed... sleek, somehow. It was little matter, though, in the whole scheme of things. 

God. The world. The whole goddamned world. Like _that._ Civilization, wiped out. And reduced to _this._ To snotlike food and cramped ships. To desperate fighting, single-minded survival, with no range, no vision, no hope... She shuddered. Maybe it was better than enslavement. She didn't know... But those lines of green code shone in her dreams, straight and hard and tangible, so unlike these soft walls...

Time seemed to hang like Jell-O here, some parts solid and real, mandarin oranges and peeled grapes suspended in the ephemeral, measureless slog. She couldn't tell how long she'd been here. True, the crew was nice enough, Typhus wily and wise, Thread just wily, and Caliban and Ariel... She smiled. Those two were as different as day and night, Caliban with his booming bass voice and bear-like good humor, everyone's big brother, and Ariel, knife-slim, graceful as death, all smirk and wit. And sometimes, late at night, when they played for the rest of the crew in the tiny mess chamber (for it could not truly be called a hall,) Marie remembered why humanity was worth fighting for, with their sweet earthy music washing away the stiff hum and seductive lines of the ship. The rhythm seemed to suggest that the world was worth fighting for, yes, but it was also fine, as fine as silk and wine and the smoke-and-sweat-stained tribal dances of long, long ago. That was the kind of magic Caliban and Ariel wove. The passion for life, and the soft-spoken determination to save it, at all costs...

And Shakespeare. Shakespeare, too tall and rail-thin, like a praying mantis in a blown-glass cage. The man was eternally silent, hair hanging like chunks of chestnut silk in hazel-green eyes deep like the night sky was deep, deep like the code that haunted her dreams, the ones where she could hear Ned's voice echoing back, warped by the digital translation.... Shakespeare had been the one to comfort her, to calm her madness after she had been rebuilt, and woke to find Ned gone. It was Shakespeare that had remembered the stories, the plays, the sonnets, the poems, that she had made half a living strapping down and picking apart, Shakespeare that had shown her their spirit and made it tremble in her hands like a newborn chick. He had brought her to his bunker, once, to show her the sketches that had lined the walls, sketches of a weary woman on a park bench in the Matrix smiling at her child chasing pigeons, sketches of the cold, elegant structure of the buildings, broken by one small, defiant balloon floating up through the air, sketches of the crew, the angle of someone's jaw as they smiled, head tilted downward... Shakespeare could still find the beauty in this place, could recognize the cold beauty in the Matrix, just as she could. But, as he had written on a battered legal pad, in his fine copperplate, this was home now. This was where they belonged. It was all here, and it could be built back up again... 

It gave Marie something to think about, but somehow, it seemed... False. Marie. She had to remember, she was Aether now. She'd explained to Typhus about that, and she'd agreed that it was probably better that way. Shakespeare thought that it was a good name, something about air and heaven and poets and the upper reaches... Almost too trippy for Mar- Aether. 

And, after the first few weeks, which were still hazy in her mind, clouded from the delirium she'd undergone at being ripped from Lawrence's presence, Morpheus and his crew had come around less and less. They kept close, yes, and in contact, but she could have used seeing some different faces. Maybe Neo could explain to her what this crap about being a Catalyst was, seeing as how he was the One or whatever... Typhus had been unusually cryptic on the subject. 

She popped her back, squirming a bit on the cot to do so. Her eyes focused absently on the Egyptian motif, brow furrowed. It wasn't making any sense, this Catalyst bit. She was pathetic in the Construct, and training programs they tried to load failed more often than not. It seemed like her brain just wasn't wired correctly for it. Still, enough had took for her to do a combat sim or two with some of the other crew members. Not that it was always a success... Weird coincidences always seemed to trip her opponents up, like the mat slipping upward and catching a foot, or a bit of ill-placed moisture, or a sudden cramp. Always _some_thing. It got to the point that no one really wanted to fight her, and she was vaguely worried that she wouldn't get the proper training. 

But only vaguely. None of this seemed real, somehow. She was halfway expecting to wake up and find it was some crack-induced dream, that some sick joker had put drugs in her drink. She'd wake up on her couch, panting, with the Indian blanket draped over her, sweat-soaked, and laugh at her own stupidity, relieved...

It never happened.

She was still stuck in this hellish place, the curved walls, the slop, the hum... And there was no way out. She shut her eyes tightly, blowing out a sigh. Maybe she'd actually try to sleep tonight...

Thread pounded on the hatch with a noise like cymbals in the still semi-dark. "Wakey, wakey! Rise an' shine, Aether!"

Marie- no, Aether. Aether, now. Groaned, heaving herself forward. Just another day in paradise...


	8. Bullet the Blue Sky

"Would you mind telling me what the _hell_ that was about?"

Aether bolted up from the somewhat worn seat, rubbing the plug in the back of her neck, glaring with eyes that seemed more blue in the pale brushed gold of the _Ma'at._ "Whatcha mean, Typhus?" Christ. Her voice hadn't been _that_ gravelly in the rea- in the Matrix, had it?

"What I mean," Oh, shit. The woman sounded like a panther. A very pissed-off panther. "Is _why_ you decided upon that par-_tic-_ular course of action in the Agent Training Program."

"I froze up. It can happen to anyone." Oooh. Snappish. ...But shouldn't Ned be reprimanding her? Not her own mental voice...

"Mmmph. I'd counted on you to do more than just stand there with a gun leveled at your head, Aether." 

She was really starting to hate that name. "Well, forgive me for being a bit freaked out by a guy that punched a hole straight through my _goddamn brick wall!!_"

"There's no need to be hostile." Smooth like silk... Or a Jedi mind trick.

"The hell there ain't." 

Oh, here we go. Wise momma-bird type act again... "I can understand your frustration, Aether. It's not easy for anyone, the first few months.."  


"Well, how many has it been, then? I think six is rather more than 'a few,' don't you?" she snapped, then sighed mightily, pulling her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, some part of her mind registering the contrast of the rough-spun linen of her overly loose shirt-sleeves and the smooth spongy texture of her pants. "Six months, Typhus. And my brain... it's not accepting any of the programs. I can barely get into half the simulators." Her eyes were glazed, focused somewhere inward. Typhus was standing back, arms crossed, a quietly sympathetic presence in her flowing, never-still silks, mocha skin almost glowing in the gilded light.

"I've been on this goddamn ship for six months. And every morning, I still expect to be back ho- back in the Matrix. In my bed. Safe, and warm, and something more than the goddamn maggot-slop here to eat. Somewhere with a few actual friends, and where I could look up at the stars if I drove outside of town a little ways. Somewhere with movies. Somewhere where there's not this constant humming... I _liked_ my life, goddamnit! It was weird, I know, with the motorcycles and the papers and living on my own like I was, and the old dead guy in my head..." Here her voice wavered, and she looked away, running a hand through the hair that was slowly growing back in a rather unexpected loose curl that slid easily around the curve of her ear. 

Typhus remained silent. Everyone had these kinds of complaints for a while. But it was a captain's duty to listen. And she still hoped- Morpheus inspired that kind of wild, irrational hope- that this child before her might amount to something. The girl's voice was a wax-paper thin whisper in the semi-dark, and Typhus was glad that it was just her and Aether doing this tonight.

"I miss him, you know... He was... My father, practically. Hell. He _was_ my father. And my best friend. He gave me support, and knocked me on my ass when I needed it... He... He loved me. Unconditionally. And... He respected me. As a person." 

She wasn't even aware that she was speaking, Typhus thought. Until the girl turned her head toward the older woman, unshed tears and venom in her eyes. "So excuse me if I'm a little fucking bitter about being torn away from all of that." 

With that, the girl slid out of the chair and stalked off to her bunker. A quiet, solid click resounded 

through the ship. Not a slam. A click. Even in this, her seething rage, she had... control.

Typhus leaned back, eventually plunking into a chair. 

Control. She had control... Here, yes, but not in the programs. She'd not dared to take the girl outside yet. It was far too dangerous, and at this delicate stage... Anything, anything at all, could swing the precarious balance from one direction to the other. She knew the girl hadn't been sleeping very much, and the delirium had a way of coming back at inopportune moments. Typhus couldn't help but wonder if there was some substance to Aether's delusion that T. E. Lawrence had been living in her head... No. The matter at hand, Typhus... Any one event, no matter how small or large, could be the thing that solidified the girl's resolve- or shatter it completely. Taking her into the Matrix now would be the most risky, thoughtless, and utterly foolish stunt she'd ever pulled...

"Fuck it."

THONK! THONK! THONK!

"I'm comin', I'm comin, keep ya damn shirt on..." Thread swung open the hatch to her bunker, rubbing at her eyes, flinching at the intrusive light that glared behind the outline of her captain. 

"Whaddya want at this ungawdly hour, Ty?"

"Take us to broadcast depth, Thread."

"Huh? Now? Why?" 

Typhus turned with a whisper of silk. "Aether's going to see the Oracle. Today."

Blink. Blink. Oh. 

Oh!

"Awwww, shiiiit...."

The sluggish hum of the ships engines swallowed the hollow thump of Aether's boot connecting with the bottom of her cot. She snarled a curse as she flopped down on the too-thin palette, fingers clenched in the whisps of her stubbly hair.  
  
"How could I have been so _stu_pid?"  
  
The silence in response was unbearable.  
  
But that's really what it boiled down to. Sheer animal stupidity. She slumped back, stretching out, arm flung over her eyes, and tried to remember precisely where she'd screwed up so royally in the Agent Training Program…  
  
  
Her fingers were clammy to the bone, and hanging onto the cold, slick metal of the fire escape wasn't helping them any. It was the type of day that cried out for chicken soup, hot chocolate, and some good Joseph Campbell by a fire. She should have been steaming underneath the heavy wool coat, but somehow the chill crept in the nigh-impenetrable layers of fabric.  
  
She couldn't stay on the fire escape long, she knew that…  
  
But.  
  
But…  
  
She risked unclenching one of her hands, ankles straining to compensate for the reduction in support, and looked at her palm. Something wasn't right here. Her hands were cold, yes, damp, certainly, but she couldn't shake the feeling that-  
  
Rust.  
  
There should have been flakes of rust on her hands.   
  
She gripped the ladder of the fire escape again, limbs beginning to tremble. A minute trickle of water was sneaking down her spine, siphoned by a thin strand of joyously long hair that had slipped out of her ponytail and underneath her collar.   
  
There was something that just wasn't right here… It was a bit too ordered, a bit too stereotypical. She hazarded a glance downward, took a breath, and tried not to think too hard…  
  
She leapt, coat tails flying upward, flecks of rain sliding off her obligatory sleek sunglasses, her body slicing through the air like a dropped Ginsu knife.  
  
To her considerable shock and amazement, she landed in a perfect crouch, coat pooling around her like something straight out of a Batman comic book. Hurh. Dark Knight, her ass… She rose to her feet, mercurial, casting an idle, cocky glance over her shoulder, down the alleyway…  
  
The Desert Eagle barrel against her forehead made the cloying chill of the day seem like a balmy tropical retreat. It was a dry cold, like liquid nitrogen. Sharp and stale, like death…  
  
She looked past the barrel, to the face of the Agent holding the gun.  
  
Smith.  
  
…Was it? She couldn't see through the sunglasses. She couldn't see the shape of his eyes, as she had before. The dark of his glasses was too solid. It was as if she was looking at a plaster bust, opaque, and perhaps, oversimplified.   
  
She held her ground.  
  
  
…Looking back, she'd been right.  
  
But how could she have known?  
The silence in her head wailed like a banshee. There was no answer. No comfort. No teasing. Nothing. Hollow. …Like the Construct.  
  
The hatch of her bunker creaking open interrupted her reverie. She looked up, displacing her sparse, straggly hair.  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"Wake up, kid. You're goin' in."   
  
  
  
  
"Okay, den, Typhus, mon. De Nebby gon' go wid us."  
  
"Wond'rous. Shakespeare's ready. Strap in."  
  
Aether was already in the chair, tense as a rubber-band-ball. The rest of the crew looked nervous, like they were going into battle. Or something. Was being back in the Matrix that different once you were 'unplugged?' She couldn't believe that, somehow.  
  
Yeah, she was nervous. She'd have to be brain-dead not to be. Her pulse was raging like it wanted to burst from her veins. The restraints were too tight, electric chair tight. And the tangle of wires and beeping monitors almost seemed to writhe, like they should be squirming in a ghastly representation of some Elder God that had haunted Lovecraft's nightmares.  
  
"You ready, kid?"  
  
Aether twisted in the restraints, straining her neck to look at Thread. "As I'll ever be. An' don't call me 'kid.'"  
  
The silhouette of Shakespeare's head blocked out the harsh glare of the overhead lights. Bony fingers ran through her hair in a gesture of reassurance. She absently wished it was more effective…  
  
And then it was cold steel fangs in her cerebellum, venomed with mechanical oil and numbing neurotoxin, and then, and then, and then…  
  
  
Blazing green brands, deep velvet black. The first sweet surge of the code through her consciousness washed away the stale, sterile gold and seductively hazy lines of the ship. These were hard, ordered, real. She couldn't read them, but the meaning seemed so very close, dancing just beyond her fingertips. If she could only break free, she could have it, the Rosetta Stone to these symbols… it was something ancient reborn, reformed, reincarnated in a sleeker and more vital form. Hieroglyphs… But who were the gods to first inscribe them--?  
  
A warehouse. The wind clattered the rafters like old, dry bones. Stained, cracked concrete beneath her obsidian boots, below clinging black pants that swallowed the light, below a shifting, silver-spangled tank top. She checked her coat. It moved- and gleamed- like mercury, when the light hit it right. The light was a sweet, faded red, a bing cherry stain on gran'ma's brittle, red velvet chair. Her sunglasses were a shining leaded gray, fitted like they grew out of her skull.   
  
"Bitchin'!"

"Shakespeare thought you might like that, Aether..." Oh, joy. Typhus was looking pleased... Aether hated it when Typhus looked pleased.

"Hey, I thought the Neb's crew was comin' with us."

"They're on stand-by. Yah know. Jus' in case we need back-up," Thread drawled, flipping a silver dreadlock from her face. "We ready ta get this thing started, capt'n?"

The slow, predatory grin Typhus gave sent shivers down Aether's spine. "But of course..." A small, black cylinder manifested in her ebony-wood fingers. "And this time, we won't be unprepared."

Ariel took a half-step forward, eyes focused behind red-tinted sunglasses. "Yo, Typhus, mon, is dat wot I t'ink it be?"

A swirl of silk curled by the doorjamb as Typhus turned to face Ariel, smiling very, very slightly. "Yes. Yes, it is. Now let's move. We've not much time."


End file.
